


I've Been an Awful Good Girl

by charleybradburies



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Actors, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Bisexual Peggy Carter, British Character, Canon Jewish Character, Christian Character, Christian Holidays, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Christmas Tree, Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli, F/F, Families of Choice, Female-Centric, Femslash, Films, First Christmas, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Height Differences, Historical, Historical References, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, Hot Chocolate, Italian-American Character, Jewish Holidays, Male-Female Friendship, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining, No Sex, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Female Character, POV Peggy Carter, Peggy Carter as Captain America, Pining, Post-War, Post-World War II, Sleepy Cuddles, Snow, Snow Angels, Snow and Ice, Snowed In, Spies & Secret Agents, Stripping, Surprise Kissing, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy had certainly mocked plenty of men in her life for being a bit dizzy about girls, and while she wouldn’t say she <i>regrets</i> that….there’s no way she can deny - to herself, at least - that she doesn’t understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For lovely Tumblr user daisy-rydley, originally angiescarter.
> 
> Title from "Santa Baby."

**SUNDAY, DECEMBER 22ND, 1946**

Around six o’clock, the front door to Howard Stark’s largest estate house slams closed; even a number of rooms away, Peggy hears it. 

_No immediate greeting. It must be Angie._

“Hey, English? Was it supposed to snow today?” comes a breathless enquiry, indeed from Angie.

Peggy, having been in the process of picking up the tea kettle, sets it back down on the burner and clicks off the stove, unable to dedicate her focus to it any longer.

“A dusting of frost is what the radio warned Jarvis of, earlier today,” she replies, angling her body toward the open kitchen door, expecting Angie will be walking in soon. She’s puzzled when that turns out not to be the case, and heads down the hallway, reaching the living room just in time to see Angie _covered_ in snow.

“Well, tell Jarvis that the radio was dead wrong.”

“Clearly,” Peggy says, holding back laughter as well as worry as she sets herself on helping to free Angie from her attire and accessories, all of which are either significantly dampened or frozen. 

_All_ of them - her already-sheer silk slip unfortunately not exempt from such rules of nature as water damage.

Or fortunately, depending on how Peggy wants to see this. This, this situation in which poor Angie’s fingers have proven too frozen to pry open the zipper of her slip, and the duty falls to Peggy, whose nerves don’t care for a break and whose face just might be imitating the redness of her roommate’s. 

How terribly Christmasy of them...snow, and red cheeks, and Angie with her green peacoat. 

It doesn’t look particularly green now; now that its icy outer layer has finally begun to leave it in the dry heat of the house, its color is much closer to black. 

Angie doesn’t seem anxious as she lets Peggy undress her; a far more accurate description for her reaction would be dread. Even though the house is warm, her teeth are still chattering, and she waddles over to the couch when Peggy starts to move her, more than grateful when Peggy covers her, now clad only in her underthings, with a heavy blanket. Peggy dashes back to Angie’s room, picking out dry undergarments and only somewhat matching skirt, shirt, sweater, and socks, and then, expeditiously, to the kitchen, in the hopes that the kettle’s still hot. 

“Warmer here than a Russian winter,” she says when she’s back in the living room, marching towards the couch with the spoils of her short trip in her hand. 

“Oh, jeez, English, don’t even make me think about it,” Angie winces. “We’re not all Captain America, for God’s sake.”

Peggy chuckles. “None of us are, actually.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Angie says, her eyes rolling as her voice returns to its usual humor. 

“Do I,” Peggy hums, rubbing Angie’s shoulders with the blanket another time before the grumbling Angie shrugs the blanket off and stands up. Peggy does her best not to pay much mind to Angie’s pale, goose-fleshed, bare skin as she unclips her dampened brassiere and replaces it with the dry one, and though she’s sure she fails she’s not a _miserable_ failure - at least, it certainly doesn’t seem that she’s _obviously_ enraptured, since Angie seemingly takes no notice. The rest of Angie’s redressing passes equally slowly, a process that Peggy can only dream of actually getting the chance to appreciate. 

It takes remembering that poor Angie had been outside in the cold long enough for the snow to have soaked through to her undergarments not to feel sorry for herself, which is pathetic and ridiculous and a bright pink triangular flag. For all the hatred Peggy has for those who registered nothing of her save her bright lipstick, clicking heels, and generous bust, here she stands with a lump in her throat and the tables turned. 

Even with her cardigan fuzzy and tightly buttoned, Angie’s got a chill, and she sits down on the couch again, pulling the blanket back around herself and curling into it for a moment, before jerkily wrenching one of her hands out to Peggy’s elbow and yanking her down onto the couch next to her. She dramatically thrusts the blanket upwards, and one of its edges lands atop Peggy’s head, but it cascades down her back a second later, down behind them both. With something of a giggle, Peggy grabs it and raises it back up; Angie decides suddenly to bring her legs up underneath her and turn to her side, leaning down and letting her head rest on Peggy’s lap. Peggy’s heartbeat grows a little stronger and a little less steady in that short interim, but one of her hands, as though in instinct, reaches to stroke away what of Angie’s hair is falling into her face. 

Angie lets out a soft sigh and then relaxes. Letting one of her hands settle onto Angie’s raised shoulder, it takes Peggy a minute to realize that it seems like Angie’s closed her eyes (albeit contentedly, but still unexpectedly). 

“Don’t you want your tea?” Peggy asks, and Angie doesn’t move.

“I thought that was your tea.”

“Oh. But you’re the one who’s just come in from the cold; you need it more than I do. It’s yours if you want it, though, of course.”

“You didn’t make it for me, though.” Angie’s voice is curiously soft and stomach-turning.

“Would you _like_ me to make you some?”

Angie hums uncertainly, her breath tickling some of Peggy’s calf, and then she bites her lip before maneuvering herself onto her back and looks up at Peggy.

“You’re plenty warm, English. But…but it’s snowing, so it’s not time for tea, not for us normal Americans, at least. Some cocoa would be spectacular.” 

“Spectacular, hmm?” Peggy chuckles softly, starting to shift herself to stand up off the couch. Angie growls and pushes her down harder, clearly expending a great deal of effort to stretch herself further into Peggy’s lap.

“Spectacular! But just...call Jarvis,” she whines.

“I’m a grown woman, and I am perfectly capable of making a cup of hot cocoa.”

“I...I don’t doubt that, English. But even more badly than I want a cup of cocoa I would like you to remain precisely where you are so that I don’t have to _move!_ ” 

She does move, however - just enough to be looking straight up at Peggy with her big, beautiful pleading eyes, and by the time a couple tense seconds have passed and she’s decided to bat her eyelashes and purse her lips, Peggy’s already started in on her sigh of capitulation.

Angie grins proudly when she realizes her victory, and Peggy rolls her eyes and reaches for the phone. Jarvis, of course, doesn’t even question her request, and shows up shortly with two large, steaming cups of cocoa and bright, curious eyes.

“I am truly sorry, Miss Martinelli, for the improper forecast of the morning. Had it been said the weather would so worsen, I would have insisted that you dress appropriately for such events.”

Angie giggles. 

“It’s not your fault, Ned. It’s the radio’s reporters I got a beef with, now.”

“Ned?” interrupts Peggy before Jarvis has a chance to respond, unintentionally giving him extra time to be sure the mugs are set down on top of a pair of their fancy coasters.

“It is apparently a sobriquet for Edwin. Miss Martinelli cares to be more casual in her addresses of others than you and I.”

Peggy sighs quietly, but with a gentle smile. 

“Yes, I’d noticed...thank you, Mister Jarvis.”

“Of course, Miss Carter. Is there anything else I can do for you at the moment? Or you, Miss Martinelli?”

“Can Howard hire a more qualified meteorologist?” Angie jokes as she’s deciding now to actually sit up. 

Peggy forces what she can of a laugh, but it’s embarrassingly harder to find her humor with the influx of cooler air against her lap and chest; the lack of Angie’s weight and warmth is obtrusively apparent and unwelcome, like Peggy’s entire body is missing it. 

“You do realize that if you ask him to, he will hire someone, right?” Peggy says, adjusting her seated position and slightly stretching her legs.

“Wait, he _can_ do that?”

“Mister Stark _could_ buy you a broadcasting company if you so desired,” Jarvis tells her, and for a moment it looks like she’s in shock.

“Woah,” is all that she manages to say within the next couple minutes, the poor darling. 

_Damn you, Howard._

Peggy knew how enticing his wealth and pomp could be; having been a woman who’d (decidedly _not_ particularly politely) excused herself from a life of riches to follow a path considerably more treacherous than housewifery, and she’d excused herself from chasing him as well...to an extent, though, she understood that which drew women to men like him and stayed out of that business. 

But _Angie?_

That was just too far.

He _wasn’t_ allowed to make Angie do anything even the littlest bit comparable to swooning, whether he even knew it was happening or not. It simply wasn’t acceptable. It would be like Private Lorraine not only kissing Steve but staying around to-

Angie starts moving again, and Peggy loses her train of thought, too busy watching Angie cheerfully lift up her holiday-themed decorative mug - whose purchase she couldn’t confidently attribute to either Howard or Jarvis individually - and start to sip the cocoa that fills it up to its brim, to continue to reminisce on past loves, or past _anything_. Or _anything_ , frankly, past _or_ present, with the distinct exception of Angie’s pink cheeks, smiling eyes, and atypically red lips.

_Jeez, Peg. Get it together, for God’s sake._

“This is some very good cocoa,” Angie declares. “What do you think, English?”

Peggy just barely keeps herself from startling, or blushing up a storm.

“I’ve not yet tried it. I was waiting on your verdict.”

Angie snorts. “I’m not an honored guest, Peg. You don’t have to dote on me.”

“Perhaps I _enjoy_ doting on you.”

“Then suit yourself,” she sighs dramatically, and Jarvis excuses himself with a final nod and bow, and a telling expression.

“I’ll leave you two be until supper. Only a phone call away, of course, if you should require my assistance in the interim.”

When he takes his leave, Angie, the mind-reader that she is, snuggles right back into Peggy’s side, seemingly without deliberation. 

Supper is soup - Italian Wedding, one of Angie’s favorites, made with her mother’s recipe - and eaten up by the trio while Angie divulges a multitude of stories about her youth. Peggy, naturally, finds them riveting; Jarvis, while he doesn’t seem disinterested, seems nearly as intrigued by Peggy’s interest as Peggy is interested. She tries not to seem suspicious about it, but she _is_ a special intelligence agent, isn’t she? And Jarvis had a history of what one might call...interference. “A superb butler assists without being asked” and all that. 

He was indeed a superb butler and a delightful friend, but that didn’t mean he never tried to get anything past her...usually things on the ridiculous side, but loved by Angie, like a puppy none of them had the time or animal ownership expertise to properly care for. Insisting it be taken to the pound had been painful, but someone had needed to do it, and Peggy’s clothes had already gotten more than enough hair on them by the time she’d officially decided to broach the topic with Angie rather than simply expressing displeasure.

One thing she expresses precious little displeasure about, though, is the Captain America show. Now that Angie’s made a game of listening weekly with the purpose of mocking it theatrically, Peggy could even claim to have begun looking forward to the Sunday evening broadcasts. Tonight, though, Angie doesn’t quite make it that long; Peggy fields a concerned call from Daniel about the snowstorm, which is apparently getting city folk in quite the tizzy, and upon her return Angie’s already asleep on the couch, peaceful and smiling. Peggy pulls her shoes off, slings a warm blanket over her, and doesn’t manage to restrain herself from leaving a soft kiss at her temple.


	2. Chapter 2

**MONDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 1946**

Peggy’s room is alight with an eerie white glow when she wakes up. She startles almost immediately - she’s certainly late, isn’t she? Jarvis had previously made such decisions as that she’d needed more sleep than otherwise usual, and she’d had to explain to Thompson that she’d not made any decision on the matter of the time she was awoken…today, it’s nearly noon, and she can only hope that her absence has formally been acknowledged. 

She realizes when she pushes herself out of bed and thrusts her blinds fully open that the ground is entirely cloaked with snow, to the point where the wheels of the cars in the car park in back of the Jarvises’ house are hidden underneath its bright white. Snow is continuing to fall, but less aggressively than it had the day before; though if that judgement is only because the sun is shining now, she wouldn’t be shocked.

The house lays silent and warm, and after she’s slipped into a thicker slip and a long sweater, it begins to concern Peggy. Surely if Angie were home as well she’d be awake by now, yes? 

More for the hell of it than anything else, she pulls on the knitted winter hat that Anna had given her a few days prior - red and green and woolen, and entirely unnecessary inside the house, but well-made and appreciated all the same, before she slips out of her room and heads down the hall towards the kitchen and living room.

The kitchen is empty, but she hears Angie and Jarvis bickering by the doorway before she sees them.

“Miss Carter would be most disappointed to-”

“ _Miss Carter_ is not-”

“Awake?” Peggy interrupts, and Angie’s face has paled by the time Peggy can see her, Jarvis’s eyebrows raised knowingly...looking at a snow-covered Angie. _Oi, deja vu._

Peggy purses her lips, and Jarvis answers - the butler in him knowing better than to wait for her to ask what’s going on.

“Miss Martinelli is insistent on making “snow angels,” but the snow’s texture and depth is disagreeing with her today.”

Peggy sighs, but notices that at least today Angie doesn’t look particularly _affected_ by the cold; she’s covered in it, but only barely shivering. Snow did feel differently when you’d intended to be outside in it, didn’t it? That was certainly true for Peggy...but Angie’s dressed only marginally better than she’d been the day before, and intent and excitement were not excuses to be ill-prepared. 

“I’m not going to freeze my butt off going outside a few times, Peg! What’s the point of taking a snow day in the first place if we just stay inside the whole stinking time there’s any daylight?”

“You might not freeze, but we’re the ones you’ll cry to if you catch cold,” Peggy grumbles, reaching out to shake some of the snow off Angie’s jacket.

“As good an excuse to cuddle as any,” Angie groans, playfully squirming as Peggy tries to get a cube of congealed snowflakes out of her bun.

“You didn’t even wear a hat.”

“I wore a coat! And boots! Is nothing good enough for you, English?”

“Mister Jarvis, can you set a fire and make some hot chocolate? This little _snow angel_ of ours will be needing them soon enough,” Peggy says teasingly, ignoring Angie’s disgruntled complaining. He dismisses himself with a nod, and Angie growls at Peggy when Peggy pulls off her hat and shoves it onto Angie’s head, deciding that her hair is dry enough for it.

“I’m not _his_ snow angel,” she grumbles, and sticks her tongue out, but allows Peggy to coerce her hands from her mittens and rub them together with her own. Cold, but not frozen, thank goodness. 

“Oh, you know I didn’t mean it rudely by any means.”

Angie giggles, her temperament betraying her even though she’d like to pretend to be stoic and entirely fine. Talented actress that she was, she was terrible at hiding just about anything from Peggy.

“But if you insist, I correct myself, _my_ angel.”

“That’s better,” Angie smirks, bending forward and putting her damp forehead down on Peggy’s shoulder, and Peggy’s heart skips. Peggy reaches around Angie’s shoulders and rubs her palms against them to urge Angie’s body to warm up more quickly, but on evaluating whether she should duck over to the couch and retrieve a blanket, she elects not to move away. 

Angie tilts her head eventually, adjusting herself ever-so-slightly to rest her cheek against Peggy’s shoulder, making clear her own intent of staying precisely where she is, with her nose and her warm exhalations against Peggy’s cheek, confirmed even more heartily when she brings her arms up and slings them around Peggy’s neck. 

Peggy doesn’t bother finding words, just lets her arms drift down to Angie’s waist once they start to tire from being held up. 

Angie’s hot chocolate has already cooled by the time Peggy realizes that Jarvis had set it down on an end table along with a plate of Angie’s decorative Christmas cookies; Angie attests that she prefers Peggy’s anyway, but swears - gently and jokingly, with a single finger crossing her heart - not to tell Howard or the Jarvises.


	3. Chapter 3

**TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 1946**

Stuck at home yet _another_ day - only one of Howard’s cars was able to drive in the current condition, and no one else at the SSR was so fortunately equipped, so they’re resigned to hoping that Leviathan is snowed in as well - and making a sorry attempt to be anything more than bored out of her mind, Peggy stays in her room until Angie wakes and beckons, doing what paperwork she’d brought home from the office. Better that than expect to have any free time on the days she actually does have off from work, after all. 

It’s roughly eleven when the smells of sourly strong coffee and frying eggs begin to rejoin those of their Christmas tree and wreaths. Peggy’s been up for hours, but Angie, ever the nonconforming artist, much preferred to sleep late whenever she wasn’t absolutely required to rise early and shine. Peggy, though, works through Angie’s brunch, waiting instead for her inevitable, cheerful summoning. That process, of course, is on Angie’s initiative, by which she flings herself into Peggy’s room and grips her in a tight hug.

“Merry Christmas Eve!” 

Peggy snorts.

“Good morning to you, too, Little Italy.”

Angie feigns a huff of frustration, but she does decide to release her tight hold on Peggy a couple moments afterwards, before grabbing Peggy’s hand and insisting on excitedly dragging her away.

“Come on, English! It’s tree time!”

En route to the living room, Peggy just barely manages to get Angie stop a minute to wave over at Anna and Edwin, who’s happily returned to his own house on Angie’s orders; Angie had been very assertive that she and Peggy were to be the ones decorating their tree, rather than having it done by their domestic help. 

(Peggy hasn’t ever been particularly invested in her Christmas festivities, but considering that Howard had decided to pay someone to cut down a tree for them rather than, say, just handing her a damned axe and waiting an hour or two, paired with Angie’s determination and fervor, made her feel that the decking of their halls was indeed a responsibility that was hers. It’s not as though that choice of his surprises her, especially as he’d also hired someone to build a stand and large glass box worthy of Anna’s precious menorah - one of the few family heirlooms she was lucky enough to still have, and as lovely and majestic a sight as any Christmas tree when she and Howard lit it in the evenings. It looked as though it was something meant to be on display at a museum, with the glass cover around it.) 

By the time they make it to the living room, Peggy’s spotted the impressive spread of ornaments and other decorations that’s unceremoniously filling the room, obviously so placed with the intention of being used although Peggy’s not sure by whom. With Angie in charge, it may well have even been Howard, such was her sway. _Peggy knew this well._

Acutely, in fact. 

Because Peggy herself, despite her usual tendency to be approximately _mildly_ excited and _adequately_ prepared for Christmas, spends half a bloody _day_ helping Angie nitpick over which ornaments should be hung where, cleaning up pine needles from the floor - tossing them into the fire to let their home smell that much more like Christmas, although watching Angie look on in glee as they caught fire and burnt up almost immediately was not bad at all, and feigning to have less experience at dancing than she truly did. 

Angie is indeed better than her, anyways, and once she realizes Peggy’s got the hang of some things she switches out Howard’s Sinatra record for her copy of the soundtrack of _On the Avenue_. She contests that she saw the movie four times back when it came out, and Peggy’s not surprised to find that she knows every single note on the record. 

The only song Peggy recognizes is _I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm,_ which doesn’t ease any of her awkwardness - slight enough, thank heavens, that Angie seems only to make note of it without really reacting. 

They dance until early evening, by which time the record’s already ended and been traded out with Peggy’s Doris Day. They’re only alerted to the occasion of their extravagant fish dinner by a clapping - and suspiciously cheerful - Howard. They leave the Doris Day record on until it ends, but Peggy notices Angie across from her continuing to hum tunes to no one in particular but herself long after the living room adjacent to the dining room has fallen silent.

Nightfall, too, comes all too soon, and only somewhat unfortunately, it brings with it yet more snowfall. 

Peggy hasn’t the determination to be significantly annoyed about it; besides, it was Christmas Eve, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as though she didn’t have the following day off, even without the snow, and it couldn’t get in her way if she hadn’t any reason to go anywhere. 

But then, what was _her_ determination against Angie’s?

“Come on, English! Let’s go get our coats!” she squeals with childlike glee when she notices the snowflakes floating down, the area outside the living room’s tall windows just barely illuminated by the light from inside the house, and starts dragging Peggy down the hall to where Angie’s room is, unintentionally making Peggy walk the long way round to her own.

Peggy refuses the suggestion of a snowball fight; Angie and Howard were both in support, but it was far too dark out to be much fun - or to be safe, which Peggy considered more important than they did. But the Jarvises, with solidarity, firewood, and cocoa ingredients at the ready, agreed with Peggy, and any violence in the freezing cold is put on hold for the following day instead. 

Not that letting them pummel each other with snow and ice in the light would have a drastically different result; Peggy already knows that they’ll do their best to drive themselves silly over it. The most significant factor as to who’d win, though, if they actually bothered to keep any sort of score, would be the extent to which Peggy obliged them in playing along. She’d already survived Russia, and had little intention of spending any excess of time outside in temperatures anywhere near zero ever again in her life. Angie, though, was rather well-versed in pulling Peggy into whatever she pleased - not that it actually seems to take much effort on her part. 

Quite the opposite, really. Almost pathetically so.

Peggy had certainly mocked plenty of men in her life for being a bit dizzy about girls, and while she wouldn’t say she _regrets_ that….there’s no way she can deny - to herself, at least - that she doesn’t understand. 

Not when Angie’s enthusiastic twirling and skipping and tripping have the both of them in peals of laughter, or when Angie throws her head and her arms back and actually stands in one place for a number of relatively serene moments, trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue regardless of the fact that they’re rather fond of sticking in her hair; nor when Peggy’s heart flutters as she she leans back against the front of Howard’s house - _their_ house, all three of them, really, but it was so hard for Peggy to consider anything permanent to be something of _hers_ \- and just watches Angie, revelling in her happiness, pure and unblemished, unique...so like the snowfall itself, in all those cheesy cliched ways.

Sometimes Peggy wishes she wasn’t so aware of herself - and this is one of those times.

It was one thing to be a spy when you were trying to fool someone, when it was your job to lie, when your whole identity, your purpose, was built on a pragmatism and an enviable skill set and everything else about you was interchangeable. But to have a person with whom you legitimately wanted to be _real_? You needed more than that. You actually had to know what was there inside you when no one’s telling you what to do - not things like what music you prefer or whether you know how to dance, which were, it seemed, most of what Peggy did know about herself. She wasn’t sure where to find the rest, or whether it was mostly supposed to show up out of nowhere and surprise you.

She does know, though, that she is _horribly_ smitten with Angie Martinelli.

(What she _doesn’t_ know - not yet, anyway - is that Angie fancies her, too.)


	4. Chapter 4

**WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 1946**

“Hey. Hey, English,” comes a jubilant whisper from in front of Peggy’s face, just barely held back from being a series of boisterous yelps. Peggy grimaces to hold in her groans as she rolls onto her side and forces her eyes open. 

“Merry Christmas!” 

“Merry Christmas, Angie,” Peggy chuckles, and Angie unexpectedly nestles into her all of sudden, and it takes Peggy a moment to realize that she’s giving her a makeshift hug. It just was harder than it might seem to do so, with both of them lying on their sides and only Peggy underneath her covers. Still, Angie’s radiating heat, and whether it’s her cheer or the fire Peggy’s starting to be able to smell as the scent travels up the hall on its way to eventually refilling the house with that very first of Christmas smells, Peggy’s not quite sure. 

It doesn’t really matter, does it? She likes it all the same.

“Okay, come on. Santa’s already dropped off all our presents; it’s time to get up!”

Angie pushes herself off the bed clumsily.

“You do know he’s not real, don’t you? Besides, it’s still dark. People normally wait until dawn to rise when it’s not wartime.”

Peggy complains teasingly, and Angie whines like a puppy in that same tone, and Peggy can only shake her head and satisfy her friend’s wishes. 

A simple red dress with black shoes, green socks, and snowflake-shaped earrings - the last being an “early” present from Howard - is all that Peggy bothers with, a far cry from Angie’s sparkly ensemble, which emphasizes the pit in the bottom of Peggy’s stomach even before she sees that Angie matches their Christmas tree. 

It’s still lit up, since it’s still dark out, and it’s shimmering, almost mesmerizing - quite possibly would be if Peggy weren’t so...easily distracted by present company. 

But, to the contrary, she’s pulled into the dining room by the skipping Angie only to find that Angie’s already summoned Jarvis, at the very least, who’d only needed to get up earlier in order to stoke the fire before they all moved into the living room but has been recruited to begin cooking breakfast.

More immediately important, though, is that he’s already made and set out coffee. Coffee that very obviously has peppermint flavoring in it, but coffee all the same, hot and strong and caffeinated, and Peggy’s primary focus for a number of minutes - preceding their decadent breakfast, that is, which somehow everyone else is also miraculously awake for. 

The following few hours soon become a blur: snow, and cinnamon, and song all melting together into Peggy’s memory even as she wills herself to remember every little thing - every time Angie’s hands touch hers, every time Angie beams over at her, every little kiss Edwin and Anna pretend they’re sneaking, every new bottle of excessively expensive champagne Howard pops open.

The Jarvises haven’t properly gotten each other anything for Christmas, as they’ve already traded eight small gifts, but they stay the rest of the day regardless, receiving more from their friends and watching the trio exchange theirs between them. Even if they hadn’t planned to stay, though, they’d likely have done so - the snow starts that day in the morning, slow and steady and shimmery, but by noon the wind’s picked up and Angie’s remarked that they may well live in a snow globe. 

A snow globe owned by an enthusiastic child, perhaps. 

Or maybe Howard, whose eyes flutter with wonder as though a massive snow globe was actually a good idea...and who has apparently given up on actually picking out clothes for Peggy and instead tucks inside her Christmas card a signed voucher for a store that he reports resides on Fifth Avenue. 

But for Angie? An out-of-context draft of a script, and a very long one at that. He bites his lip until she notices his name in the premature crew list, designating him a producer and...a casting director.

And on the following page, only one named cast member: Angela Martinelli, as an Undecided Female Character. 

If Peggy thought Angie had been impressively excited for Christmas, she’d not been quite right; an overdue ecstasy Peggy’s never seen in her graces her now, with half a kiss on Howard’s cheek and arms tight around Peggy’s middle. Even yet, she manages an even tighter hug in thanks for her new Besame lipstick - the same shade as Peggy’s signature, although notably without the same effect as her own, most notorious, tube. 

Peggy, of course, is rather pleased with her new blue scarf - with white and silver stars, which Angie attests will ensure that she always ‘looks the part of Captain America’, a comparison the actress refuses to give up on, now that she knows it’s even more valid than when she’d thought of it (back when the only connection she knew Peggy had to him was her name’s suspicious similarity to the name of that horrid Betty Carver character.) She almost wants to roll her eyes, but the mere fact of its importance to Angie finds her clutching it to her heart for some absurd length of time - at least as long as it takes Howard to give his thanks for his new hat and ties...but not quite as long as it takes Angie’s exuberance to fade to near exhaustion.

“This is what you get for waking up so bloody early,” Peggy scolds gently. 

“Cuddling?” Angie whines and curls herself into a ball on the couch, her head resting on her folded hands atop Peggy’s lap.

Peggy chuckles. “Untimely exhaustion.”

Angie shrugs, and Peggy drops the subject with no more than a soft sigh and her fingers running through Angie’s hair, her mind trying to ignore that Angie only seems more and more content as they drift closer, warmer...fonder.

Peggy can only just barely deny their proximity has quite a similar effect on her, but it’s not as though Angie asks, only, well, begs the question.


	5. Chapter 5

**THURSDAY, DECEMBER 26TH, 1946**

Peggy groans herself awake, noticing both untold warmth and a strange pang around her neck before she’s fully aware that she’s fallen asleep sitting up and fully clothed (scarf included), and somehow still, she has to assume, on the couch in the living room. The only light source is the still-falling snow outside, and it takes her eyes more than a couple moments to adjust, but her brain wakes up a bit sooner and wonders where Angie is.

Surely if she’d woken up and gone to bed, or if someone had gotten her up, Peggy would have been woken as well, even if only by natural consequence...Angie had been in her bloody lap, after all, her pretty painted fingernails drifting dangerously about the thighs upon which her head rested. 

Apparently, she’d rolled off at some point, because she’s curled in front of the couch in nearly the same position, haphazardly fallen cushions behind her. She’s seemingly serene, but whether for reality or for Peggy’s own wants, less so than she’d been when she’d been using Peggy as a pillow.

Peggy allows herself a much-needed stretch and pushes herself up off the couch, albeit somewhat reluctantly, then squats to ever-so-gently scoop Angie up in her arms, hoping both that she won’t wake and that she will. Peggy knows the terrain of the mansion well enough to slowly maneuver over to Angie’s room, where she deems it safe to flick on a light whose switch is beside the door - but perhaps, not safe enough, as Angie unhappily moans a moment later.

“Damned bright.”

“It’s only a light in your room, Angie. I’m just getting you into bed.”

Angie chortles sleepily. 

“Some line, English.”

Peggy lets a breathy laugh escape her, and prays she’s not blushing, though she supposes that since Angie’s barely even opened her eyes, she probably wouldn’t have noticed either way.

“You fell asleep on the couch, and rolled onto the floor. I’d figure your own bed would be more comfortable.”

“So smart, you,” Angie smiles, her voice becoming more coherent. Peggy wonders if she shouldn’t put her down on her own feet, but hesitates enough that she doesn’t do so, and unintentionally gives Angie the opportunity to pull her fingers through some of Peggy’s hair, delicately as Peggy had done to her earlier. But Angie swiftly makes other plans, first very clearly noticing something above Peggy’s head at which she looks up and laughs, and then pushing her legs forward in a way that scoots her away from Peggy’s arms without even having to ask to be let down.

Angie reaches forward, though, and sets her hands inside Peggy’s elbows so her arms rest on top of the arms that had been holding her, and Peggy furrows her brow as Angie smirks, half a chuckle coming out as she awkwardly presses the tip of her tongue between her lips.

“Santa’s ‘bit more clever, though. Knew right what I wanted.”

The declaration, with a voice more low and gravelly than Peggy’s ever heard from her, is even more startling than Angie’s sudden movement...but nowhere near as startling as when, a matter of mere seconds later, Angie rolls up onto her tiptoes, and captures Peggy’s lips in a sudden kiss. 

Without more than half a thought, Peggy pushes her arms forward and around to Angie’s waist, and Angie willingly moves closer, though she stumbles slightly; Peggy realizes that with her heels still on and Angie in slippers the height difference has become a bit much, and takes the chance of scooping Angie up again, though this time she remains upright, just with a whimper escaping her, her calves at Peggy’s sides with Peggy’s left arm bolstering her up by her thighs and her arms around the taller woman’s neck. 

Peggy’s not had enough sleep to manage to support Angie’s full weight for all that long, though, and after some time - glorious, glorious time, that feels like a lifetime and yet not at all long enough - she makes the executive decision to move into Angie’s room and drop her onto her bed, laying next to her rather than on top in an effort not to imply any undue expectations. 

“Prolly ‘oward,” Angie says eventually, barely breaking the kiss to share the thought. “Gotsta thank ‘im later.”

“Pardon?”

Angie giggles, realizing Peggy hadn’t known what preceded the kiss, and gestures back to the dimly lit doorway. 

“Mistletoe,” Peggy states, almost as though they weren’t both well aware at this point.

“Mm-hmm.”

Angie curls herself into Peggy’s chest, apparently deciding she’s preferable even to the fancy pillows on the bed, itself still crisply-made for the most part, and presses another little kiss to Peggy’s shoulder. Peggy sits up, grab a blanket folded and positioned at the foot of the bed, and unfolds it over them both as she adjusts herself to be on her back, relinquishing in its totality the thought of leaving to return to her own bed for the remainder of the night.

“Merry Christmas, Peg.”

“Merry Christmas, darling.”


End file.
